


To Sit in Solemn Silence

by butyoumight



Category: Green Day
Genre: Hospital, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-08-10
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 20:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butyoumight/pseuds/butyoumight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Billie Joe, are you watching the news? Do you see what just happened?"</i></p><p><i>Billie's heart stopped beating for a moment. "You mean the plane crash?"</i></p><p><i>Lisea sobbed. "Billie, it was Frank's flight."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An incomplete fic that I started working on literally maybe a month before I got sucked into the My Chemical Romance fandom. I still like the concept, so maybe I'll return to it one day.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They say he's fine, he's gonna wake up and be fine, but I just want him to wake up already.”_

Billie Joe had a tendency to watch the evening news. He hated it, though. He never was quite sure why he forced himself to sit through so much death and destruction every weeknight, but he did it anyway, usually with his boys on either side of him on the couch. Sometimes he liked to convince himself that he was somehow stabilizing his sons, preparing them for the world they were in. But on the inside he knew that he just liked having an excuse to bitch.

Plus, the song material just jumped off the screen.

Tonight it was some sort of accident with a plane. Joseph had declared it his solemn duty to read the scroll of up-to-the-minute information trailing along the bottom of the screen (For Jake, he said). It wasn't so much a crash as an emergency landing, right on the border between Nevada and California. Rapid depressurization (Billie couldn't help but be proud at how well Joey's reading was getting. _He_ hadn't been so smart at twelve) had deigned the sudden landing necessary, but something had gone wrong, the plane had hit too hard, too fast, causing an explosion in the tail-end of the craft. In all, a pretty messy scene.

The phone rang, jerking Billie out of his father-son news watching time, and he crawled over the back of the couch to retrieve the handset. Joey called after him, "Only four reported deaths, but lots of injuries. The newscaster says they expect, um, 75 percent of the passengers to survive."

"That's good, Joe." Billie hit the talk button on the phone and held it to his ear. "Armstrong's."

"Billie Joe?" The voice on the other end sounded frantic, terrified, and it took him a moment to recognize it.

"Lisea? What's wrong?"

"Billie Joe, are you watching the news? Do you see what just happened?"

Billie's heart stopped beating for a moment. "You mean the plane crash?"

Lisea sobbed. "Billie, it was Frank's flight."

The phone fell from Billie Joe's hand.

=-=-=

"Thank you for calling Barton Memorial Hospital. All our circuits are currently busy. Please stay on the line, and we will connect you to personnel as quickly as possible."

Billie cursed, on the shaky knife-edge between complete panic and totally uncontrollable tears. These two states of being conflicted violently, and he couldn't restrain himself from flinging the phone to the floor.

The news was still flashing on the television, though they'd moved on to the other lead stories. Adrienne sat with the boys now, holding a hiccuping Jakob in her lap as Joseph continued to read the updated information from the bottom of the screen. Without meaning too, his constant dialogue was driving Billie Joe ever closer to full blown panic attack.

"Fifteen fatalities reported so far. Numerous patients being moved from ER into intensive care."

Billie scrambled on the floor to retrieve the phone, hitting redial hastily.

"Thank you for calling Barton Memorial Hospital. All our circuits are curr--" He cursed again, but refrained from throwing the phone this time.

The door opened, and Mike strode in. His face was stoic but pale, stony as if he couldn't even entertain the thought of letting himself break down. He went directly to Billie, who fell into his arms immediately, choking back a quiet sob.

There was a quiet moment as Adrienne ran her fingers through Jakob's hair in an effort to calm him, and Billie finally let himself go, slight tears wetting the front of Mike's shirt. Mike seemed to shiver, as if physically restraining himself from joining in on the tears.

Joseph broke the silence. "Twenty-three fatalities."

Mike took a deep, steeling breath. "We're going. We'll just get in the car and go there."

Billie pulled back to look up at him, then over at Adrienne. She nodded.

=-=-=

"Thank you for calling Barton Memorial Hospital." Billie prepared to shut his phone again. "If you are calling for information concerning patients that were involved in the accident of Delta Flight 1490, please press one now, and we will connect you to the first available personnel."

Billie's breath caught in his throat as he pressed the button indicated. Mike, listening carefully, bit down hard on his lip.

There was a long pause, and Mike took the moment to speak quietly. "We're only half an hour out, Bills."

Billie nodded, pressing the phone hard to his ear, as if afraid that they would finally get through to the hospital and then be cut off.

"Thank you for calling Barton Memorial. How can I help you?"

Billie could swear his heart stopped. Of course, after three hours of calling, calling, calling, he couldn't get himself to actually speak to the person.

"Um, Hi, Hello. I wanted... Um, my name is Billie Joe Armstrong, and I am very close to one of the passengers on the flight, and I wanted to know--" He trailed off, unable to bring himself to say anymore.

"Slow down, Mr. Armstrong." Billie bit his lip, annoyed that he was talking too fast. "Now, do you know if your friend would have had identification on their person?"

Billie nodded for a second before realizing that the poor nurse couldn't see him. "Uhm, yeah. Yes, I mean. He _always_ carried his wallet."

"And the name, Mr. Armstrong?"

Billie blinked, and stuttered for a moment. "Um, his license says Wright. Frank Wright. Frank Edwin Wright. The third."

"Just a moment, Mr. Armstrong."

The moment seemed to stretch on for all eternity. Billie found himself reaching over the gearshift to grip Mike's hand hard, fingernails digging in. The bassist didn't seem to notice, so focused was he on both the road and the phone to Billie's ear.

"Mr. Wright is currently recovering in intensive care, just out of surgery, but I am very pleased to tell you that prognosis is very good."

Billie sobbed openly at this, and Mike let out a breath that sounded as if he'd been holding it for hours (which he might as well have been).

Billie gulped back his tears and forced himself to speak again. "Thank you, thank you so much."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Armstrong."

Billie closed the phone and set it down with a shaky hand, then promptly took _both_ hands to Mike's, squeezing tight. Two words found their way past his sudden flood of tears and shaky sobbing breaths. "He's alive."

=-=-=

It wasn't at all surprising the trouble Mike had at finding a parking spot, but the car was eventually parked, and Billie was scrambling out of his seat as quickly as possible, half sprinting towards the door to the hospital. Mike jogged to catch up with him, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders.

"He's just got out of surgery, Bills, he's gonna be fine. Two more seconds isn't gonna make any difference."

Billie nodded, sniffling.

The reception desk was also understandably busy, but it was fairly obvious that most everyone was here for the exact same reason. They joined the sort of line and waited their turn to reach the receptionist, a sweetly smiling nurse who nonetheless looked exhausted.

Mike took up the duty of speaking this time, priding himself in his panic-override control.

"Hi. We just called the hospital to see if a friend of ours had been admitted, and we were told he was, we were wondering--"

"Name?" The nurse was brisk, but she smiled weakly at them, to make it obvious that she wasn't annoyed, but simply trying to be efficient.

"Wright, Frank Wright."

She turned to her computer, typing for a bit.

"He was actually just moved from ICU one-oh-four to... observation two-two-six. You should be able to go up and see him." She stood a bit, leaning over her counter, and pointed down the hallway to their left. "Go down there, there's an elevator on your right. Second floor, ask the receptionist there for Doctor Elliot."

"Thank you." Mike smiled, and Billie forced himself to do the same, and they moved off towards the elevator.

"So, you see?" Mike said in a quiet tone, hopefully comforting his still shaky band mate. "He's in a regular room. We can see him. He's fine."

Billie nodded slowly, unable to keep himself from curling against Mike's chest as the elevator rose a floor. "He's fine." He repeated quietly, like a mantra. "He's fine."

Mike nodded, looking up towards the ceiling and blinking back sudden tears. "He's fine."

The elevator door opened directly facing the reception desk. A nurse and a doctor were conversing quietly behind the desk, but they fell silent as the pair of musicians approached.

"Doctor Elliot?"

The doctor smiled. He was one of those movie-star good-looking doctors, the ones that seemed to come right out of an episode of ER. "That's me."

"The receptionist downstairs told us to come up here and ask for you. We have a friend who just got transferred up here, Frank Wright? He was in the accident." Mike said, squeezing Billie's shoulder gently to reassure him.

The doctor nodded. "Follow me, please?" He gestured with the clipboard in his hand and strode off down the hallway, flipping through the sheets. "Your friend is lucky. He was in pretty bad shape. If the paramedics had got to him as little as fifteen minutes later, I can't say if he would have made it out of ER."

Billie gulped, looking up at Mike, whose face had gone stoic once more. The doctor glanced over his shoulder, flashing a reassuring star smile.

"Like I said, lucky. We've got every reason to believe that he'll recover fully." He paused, gesturing at the door to room 226. "We're waiting for him to wake up so we can get a better diagnosis down, and work on some proper treatment." He gestured with one hand. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like." He paused, then patted Mike comfortingly on the shoulder. "I'll be checking back in an hour or so."

"Thank you." Mike said quietly, turning towards the door. Billie nodded and mumbled affirmatively. The doctor smiled yet again.

"It's my job." He nodded, and headed back the way they'd come.

Mike squeezed Billie gently, taking a steeling breath. The smaller man took in a shaky gasp and Mike opened the door, leading Billie into the dimly lit room.

=-=-=

"I hate seeing him like this, Adie. I'm... I'm fucking _terrified_. He's so still. It's _Tré_ , he's not even still when he's _sleeping_ , and here he is, with all those fucking machines like some fucking movie or something. They say he's fine, he's gonna wake up and be fine, but I just want him to _wake up_ already."

He took a shaky breath, struggling with tears again, gnawing on his lower lip as he listened to the quiet words of comfort his wife offered. A nurse came down the all towards him. He stepped aside and watched the nurse enter Tré's room.

"Yeah, no. Tell the boys I love them. I'll call you tomorrow morning. Yeah. Yeah, I will. Yeah. Love you too. Sleep well. Yeah. Good night."

Billie leaned against the wall and sighed. Useless worry was wearing him thin, stressing him out probably a bit too much.

Doctor Elliot came striding down the hall, a worried crease between his eyebrows. Billie watched him go to the door, and stepped forward to follow him when he heard a wholly familiar tearful sob.

"Tré." Billie tried to peer into the room, only to be held back by a firm arm. The doctor grabbed Mike by the wrist, pulling the pale bassist towards the door with a single word.

"Please."

Mike did as told almost reflexively, dragging Billie with them. The door closed behind them, closing off the sounds of Tré crying.

Billie looked up at Mike, frightened by the look on the bassist's face. All day, Mike had been stony, holding his emotions in, forcing himself to be strong. The sound of Tré sobbing openly was frightening, but the tears on Mike's cheeks were utterly terrifying.

"What happened?" Billie tugged Mike to the chairs attached to the wall across from Tré's door, sitting the bassist down and perching beside him, wrapping his arms around him. "Mikey, what's wrong? Is he okay?"

Mike took a shaky breath. "He woke up... And he... he seemed fine, he..." The bassist looked away. "He couldn't hear me, Billie Joe. He barely even knew it was me. He couldn't... _hear_."

=-=-=

Billie couldn't look up; he couldn't watch Mike pacing the hall that way. He sat in the stiff plastic chair, hands clasped between his knees, looking at patterns in the linoleum floor.

Billie finally brought himself to look up when the door opened and the doctor exited. He sighed. "Mr. Armstrong?"

Billie stood, reaching for Mike's hand as he bassist came near again. "You can call me Billie. Doctor, what..."

The doctor held up his hand. "I'll try to explain as best I can. The first thing I can say is unfortunately vague: unforeseen complications. If you would both please take a seat?"

Billie did just that, pulling Mike along with him. The doctor stood in front of them, hands clasped behind his back.

"When the paramedics found Mr. Wright, he was pinned beneath a piece of wreckage. At some point, he was struck in the head by another piece of debris, though we're not sure if this is what knocked him to the ground. When he came into surgery, we had to do an emergency skull tap to relieve pressure caused by intracranial bleeding."

Billie nodded, though he was having a hard time following the medical words. Mike was silent, holding tight enough to Billie's hand for his knuckles to go white.

"It is unfortunately impossible to have an accurate idea of how much brain damage has occurred, and how the damage will affect the patient once they regain consciousness, if they do. Between the actual concussion, and the modicum of internal damage, coupled with the possibility of ruptured eardrums has lead to... well, deafness."

Billie felt tears roll down his cheeks again, and he shook his head.

"You can't mean that."

The doctor bit his lip.

"I'm sorry, Mister... well, Billie. It might heal on it's own, or perhaps with therapy he can regain some sense of hearing. I'm sorry, there's nothing else I can say." He turned, hanging a clipboard beside the door. "He's been sedated, but he's conscious. If you want to see him, I ask that you only go in one at a time, to keep from exciting him too much."

Billie gulped and wiped the tears roughly from his cheeks. "Thank you."

The doctor didn't respond, he simply nodded in acknowledgement and left.

Mike sniffled and gulped and wiped away his own tears. "You go first. I need... I need a second to think."

Billie hugged his bassist tight, and helped him sit down in the molded plastic chair again before turning back to the hospital room, taking a hesitant step in just as the nurse left.

Tré looked like hell, skin pale where Billie could see it under all the bandages wrapping his arms and around his head. His eyes were closed, the bed at an almost imperceptible angle. He didn't acknowledge the nurse leaving or Billie's entrance at all, and Billie felt his heart ache.

Billie sat down slowly in the chair beside the bed, and reached hesitantly for Tré's hand, picking it up between both of his, taking a moment's pause at how cold it was.

The drummer started, genuinely surprised by Billie's sudden appearance. He mouthed wordlessly at the frontman for a long moment, and Billie's heart broke a little more.

He spoke, though he wasn't sure the purpose. His voice was not loud, but clear, as if he hoped maybe he could cause a miracle. "You can't hear me."

Tré simply looked at him, confused, and then after a long moment turned his face away, and he cried.

Billie pressed his lips to the back of Tré's pale hand, and cried with him, pressing the cold skin against his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I'm getting tired of this shit, you know? Sleeping in a hospital corridor.”_

Billie Joe shifted a bit, tossing an arm over his eyes, as if that would make some difference to the gentle shaking.

"Billie, wake up."

He mumbled something incoherent in response, shifting his head about for maximum comfort.

"Billie Joe Armstrong, if you're gonna leave your head in my lap like that, I expect you to suck me off."

Billie grumbled, lifting his head and blinking sleep out of his eyes. "The fuck, Mikey?"

Mike shrugged. "I needed you to get the fuck off me already, my legs are killing me." Billie pouted at him.

"Are you implying that I have a heavy head?"

"Anything is heavy after five hours, Billie Joe." Mike stood up, stretching upwards, wiggling his fingers. "I'm getting tired of this shit, you know? Sleeping in a hospital corridor."

Billie sighed, standing and joining Mike in his lengthy stretching regimen.

Once the initial shock of the situation had sunk in, both musicians had worked hard to internalize the pain, the fear, the overlying worry. Holding each other in a quiet hospital hallway, they both resolved to be strong, for Tré.

That was fifty-four hours ago.

They took turns sitting in the room with him (at that point still resigned to the one at a time rule), holding his hand as doctor after doctor came in to run tests. Three different general practitioners, two ear doctors, and a specialist in brain damage. Reflex tests, eye, ear, nose and throat checks, blood work. They waited side by side outside his room both times they took the drummer away for a CT scan, and they worked together to answer as much of Tré's medical history as they could (both embarrassed when asked directly if Tré had ever used Vicodin in a recreational manner, and trying to take seriously a listing of every one of Tré's previous injuries). They traded off phone duty, calling Claudia, Lisea, Tré's parents, Jason, Jason and Ronnie, John. Reassuring everyone (including themselves) that Tré was doing very well despite not being able to hear.

Now, after tests and scans, Tré was allowed out of bed, and took a short walk up and down the hall with his friends. He seemed to have internalized the situation himself, trying to make the best of it, and Billie and Mike were now both restraining themselves from grabbing every doctor that passed by and demanding permission to steal the drummer away, back to the Bay where he belonged, deafened or no.

Tré, with annoyed hand motions and a very convincing pout-face, had finally procured a pad of paper and a pen, allowing him to communicate, and every hour or so he demanded, in all capitals and underlined many times, **_TAKE ME HOME_**. Billie and Mike tried to calm him, writing **_soon_** , and **_we'll ask_** , and other sundry reassurance on the paper.   
The fact that Tré needed a pad at all, however, was the problem. Doctor Elliot was hesitant to let him go until they figured out why he wasn't talking. As far as tests could tell, there was no strain on his vocal chords, no real physical problem that they could find, leaving the doctors baffled, and Mike and Billie spending long hours while Tré slept worrying.

Denied the simple luxury of his own home, Tré began to sulk. He watched television, frowning at the closed captioning, and when the news of Green Day's drummer being involved in the still news-worthy plane crash leaked, resulting in regular rotation announcements on both VH1 and MTV, he threw a tantrum worthy of an infant. He refused to say (or write) anything to anyone, simply shaking his head at any and everything, flipping the notebook back to the page that said **_TAKE ME HOME_**.

Every time one of them asked about taking Tré back to the East Bay, the doctor used their own responses against them, telling them "Soon." He told them that they were trying to find specialists in the area, trying to assure that he would get the best treatment.

That was twenty-two hours ago.

"I'm gonna go get some coffee." Mike said, pulling Billie into a quick hug. Billie nodded, returning the hug.

"I'll check on him."

Mike nodded and headed down the hall towards the elevator while Billie sneaked into Tré's room. The drummer was still asleep, and so Billie took his seat in the chair beside Tré's bed, checking his watch. Only seven thirty in the morning, of course Tré was still asleep. He himself would still be asleep if he hadn't been crashing in the molded plastic chairs of the hospital (and one long night in a hotel room, sharing a twin bed with Mike, where neither of them had been able to sleep, so guilty did they feel for leaving Tré at the hospital).

Billie looked up when the door opened, surprised that Mike had retrieved their coffee so quickly. It was Doctor Elliot who came through the door, though. He was smiling, holding a folder.

"Good morning, doctor." Billie spoke quietly. It was a hard reflex to break, speaking quietly around a sleeping person.

The doctor spoke in his regular voice, gesturing with the file in his hand. "Good morning. I have good news."

"Good news?" Billie sat up properly, and the doctor smiled his movie-star smile.

"Her name is Doctor Melanie Carson. She's an ENT specialist, and she also does a lot of work with the mental trauma associated with sudden hearing loss. And, the best part for Tré is that she has a private practice in San Francisco."

Billie smiled. "So you mean..."

"I spoke with her at length this morning, and she's very interested in taking on Tré's case in an out-patient program. We're also confident that it would be in his best interest to let him go home as soon as possible. We've got to do a couple of quick checks to make sure he's ready, and we can have him discharged by four o'clock this afternoon. His first appointment with Doctor Carson is Tuesday at ten o'clock."

Billie's smile grew as the doctor handed him the folder of information. He flipped through some of the pages; Doctor Carson's credentials directions from the highway to her office, and some other general information as well. "Thank you, so much."

The doctor nodded as he moved to check Tré's vitals as per usual. "It's my job."

Tré awoke suddenly at the touch of the doctor's hand, yawning. He smiled weakly at Billie Joe, and glanced around, looking for his notebook.

Billie grabbed it from the bedside table, turning to the newest blank page, and scrawled quickly; **_ready to go home?_**

Tré took the offered notebook, one eyebrow raised, and read Billie's words. A smile spread across his face as his eyes lit up. He looked up at the doctor, who smiled and nodded, then back at Billie, and nodded furiously.

=-=-=

Tré was cleared by three o'clock, told time and again on paper to take it easy on his still healing ribs and head-wound, and required to take a wheelchair out to Mike's car, which Billie gladly pushed.

The drive back across the state was uneventful. Billie sat in the back seat with Tré, transcribing everything he and Mike said into the notebook, and reading aloud everything he wrote, so the drummer could keep up and Mike wasn't in the dark.

As they neared Oakland, Tré began to get increasingly more anxious; wringing his hands and tapping his feet and doodling idly on the corners of his pad of paper. Every now and again he would ask a useless question. **_Claudia knows? And Lisea? You told everyone, right? So they won't be confused? They won't try to talk to me? I don't know if I could handle that_**.

It broke Billie's heart to read that, and he nodded his head, taking the pen from Tré. **_Everything will be fine. I promise_**.

Claudia was waiting outside their house, sitting on the front steps, Frankito on her lap. Billie watched Tré carefully, biting his lip at the half-wistful look in Tré's eyes.

She stood up as Mike parked the car. Billie grabbed Tré's hand, giving it a squeeze and a quick kiss, and Mike turned around to meet Tré's eyes, smiling encouragingly. The drummer smiled back, but the paleness of his skin belied his worry.

Mike climbed out of the car to open the door for Tré, offering him something to lean on. Billie scrambled out after them, moving to Tré's other side. The drummer grinned, an almost-chuckle sounding somewhere in his throat.

Frankito ran to them, throwing his arms around Tré's legs, crying out an excited chorus; "Daddy! I love you! I'm glad you're home!"

Billie bit his lip, looking over at Tré. Mike moved first, anticipating, and picked the small boy up, giving him a chance to hug his father around the neck. Billie saw the tears in Tré's eyes, and his heart ached again.

He felt Claudia's hand on his arm, and turned towards her.

"This is going to be hard." She said quietly.

Billie gulped, blinking away his own sudden tears, and nodded. "But we've got to help him get through this."

Claudia bit her lip as she watched Tré gingerly take Frankito from Mike and hold him tight, despite his still mending ribs. She saw the tears in his eyes, and she nodded.

=-=-=

Billie sat in his dining room, nursing a bottle of wine and being overly contemplative. Joseph was having a sleepover at a friend's house, and Jakob had taken the big-brother-less opportunity to ask his parents to take him to a movie. Adrienne had agreed, but Billie had declined accompanying them. Part of his melancholy stemmed from parental guilt: he'd just spent three days all the way across the state from his wife and children, and he couldn't even drag himself out of the house to watch a stupid animated show.

The other half of his melancholy was, of course, centered on Tré. How was the other man doing, readjusting to life at home without the sense of sound? He couldn't imagine coming home one day without hearing Adie's voice, or the boys. No television, no water running.

No music.

Billie almost felt guilty that he was so worried about the band, but he always reassured himself. The band was as big a part of Tré's life as it was his own, and if there was a way to keep going, they would.

And if there wasn't...

Billie was drawn away from this wholly depressing and panic inducing train of thought by the sound of the doorbell. He stood from the table, noting that the wine bottle was well over half empty when he swayed slightly, and went to the door.

When he opened it, it was to find Tré. His arms were crossed and he was looking at the ground, until the door opened and he looked up.

Billie's heart broke yet again at the lack of life in Tré's eyes. It was as if he had given up. He didn't have a notepad with him, so Billie had no idea why the drummer was there.

But when Tré's face crumpled and tears began to fall, Billie had no choice but to usher the man in, close the door behind them, and lead Tré to the couch.

Billie held Tré tight, rocking him, rubbing soothing circles on his back, and wondered what had happened. Tré was giving no response, and Billie had no way to ask.

So they sat, in solemn silence, and Billie's entire being ached to know that Tré couldn't hear even his own sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Anything's better than alone in a hotel. I don't like that. I don't like the idea of you being alone like that.”_

Billie Joe had almost forgotten how comfortable a bed was to sleep in. Particularly with someone he loved with all of his heart beside him all night.

She wasn't now, though.

Turning over with a yawn, Billie Joe saw two things. Glowing red letters informing him that it was 9.30 a.m., and a note sitting atop the alarm clock.

He reached across the bed to grab the note, flipping it open with a flick of his wrist.

 _B,_

 _I took the boys to school, and have some work to get done at the office. I'll probably be there till four, it would be great if you could get the boys at three thirty._

 _Davey called, he wanted to know about Tré, I told him you'd call him back._

 _Call me later, maybe for lunch?_

 _Love, A._

He smiled, re-folding the note and crawling out of bed. He opened one of the drawers on his side of the dresser, and added the note to his collection.

He had letters in there from when Adrienne still lived in Minnesota and he was just a punk rock kid with a crush. He had little notes she used to stick in his guitar cases, and memos that she would send from one office to the next just to bring a smile to his face.

He stretched towards the ceiling, and headed immediately for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

Billie paused in the arched doorway to the kitchen. Tré was standing there. Fully dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing last night, though his hair was flat and damp, hinting that he'd already showered. He was watching the coffee pot as it percolated, gurgling as the pot topped off.

He opened his mouth to call Tré's name, but stopped himself. After a moment of Tré not noticing him, he turned, dashing back to his bedroom to grab the notebook he kept in the bedside table for random lyrics in the midst of the night.

When he returned to the kitchen, Tré was carefully mixing his coffee, and Billie could tell by the way his shoulders were shaking that he was, at the very least, trying to keep himself from crying.

Billie approached him slowly, reaching a hand out to touch his shoulder gently, afraid to frighten him too badly. Tré froze for a moment, then turned around. His eyes were red rimmed, but otherwise he seemed to be holding together... marginally better than he had the night before.

Billie Joe flipped his notebook open to the first blank page, and scrawled, thanking his lucky stars that Mike and Tré could both read his chicken scratch handwriting. _**What happened?**_ Tré took the notebook and snorted, shaking his head. _**Don't waste any time, do you?**_

Billie sighed, shaking his head and raising an eyebrow and Tré, refusing to take the notebook back and simply reaching for a coffee mug. He finished filling his cup, then turned to face Tré, who had tossed the notebook down without writing anything in it, and was now frowning heavily at Billie Joe.

Billie leaned against the counter, crossing one arm across his chest to grab the other arm, which bent at the elbow to sip his coffee.

They engaged in a five-second staring contest that Billie quickly won, and Tré snatched the notebook back and wielded the pen to paper with intent to kill.

 _ **I can't stay in that house, not like this. I just can't do it.**_

Billie read this upside down as Tré wrote, then headed across the kitchen to sit down at the bar, grabbing another pen from a jar on the counter as he went. He sat down, gesturing at Tré to join him. Tré sat beside him, and pushed the notebook towards him.

 _ **Why not? I don't understand, I thought you wanted to come home?**_

Tré heaved a heavy sigh at this. _**I can't talk to them, I can't hear them. Frankie doesn't understand. I need to be somewhere else. A hotel or something.**_

He paused, and Billie held out his hand for the notebook before Tré continued to write. _**Thanks, for letting me stay here last night.**_

Billie smiled at him in what he hoped was an encouraging manner. _**You know Adie...**_ he paused, considering, then continued. _**She'd probably be okay, if you just stayed here? Or we can ask Mike, he's got that big old house and no one but Stella every two weeks.**_ He paused again, looking up. Tré had hung his head, biting his lip. _**Anything's better than alone in a hotel. I don't like that. I don't like the idea of you being alone like that.**_

Tré was blushing now, slight tears in his eyes. He gulped and sniffed, looking up to meet Billie's eyes, now devoid of any kind of stern look and simply worried. Tré blinked, two tears slipping out of his eyes and down his cheeks as he nodded his head.

=-=-=

The next day found Tré moved in to the guestroom in the Armstrong house. It being a Saturday meant that the boys and Adie were more than willing to help make Tré feel as settled as possible. The boys loved Tré, it was like having an uncle and the funniest friend all at the same time.

Joseph jumped at the opportunity to cheer Tré up, and with a pout to move mountains (and employing masterful power over Jakob, whose pout was, if possible, more powerful), he demanded a pair of little hand-held white dry erase marker boards. Tré had smiled properly when Joseph had presented him with the board and the array of colored markers.

They had quickly sat down, right in the middle of the living room, like Tré was one of the kids. Jakob bounced beside Joseph, grabbing a handful of markers and starting to draw a picture, babbling at Joseph about what needed to be written to make the picture make sense. Tré watched intently, waiting for them to finish, doodling a lavish picture on his own board.

Billie Joe watched from the doorway, smiling softly, though sort of sadly, at his boys and his drummer interacting. Maybe Tré would be okay after all.

=-=-=

Tré was still in bed when Mike came over; Estelle perched on his shoulders. He never had to worry about an excuse for going to Billie Joe's when he had her, plus there was something terribly adorable about the power Estelle exercised over Joseph and Jakob both during play. His little girl with developing womanly wiles.

He let her loose and Jakob immediately shrieked and ran upstairs to his room, intending to hide. Billie was heard laughing in the kitchen, and after a warning to be careful towards the children, Mike made his way to Billie, who was waiting with two cups of coffee.

"Ah, Bills, I love it when you know I'm coming." Mike tossed himself into a chair and picked up the waiting cup, taking a slow sip.

"Of course I know." Billie smirked, tilting his chair back on two legs like a teenager holding court.

They sat in amicable silence for a while, and Mike finished his first cup and went to prepare a second before delving into the topic on the forefront of his mind.

"How is he?"

Billie remained leaning back in his chair, tapping the heel of one foot against the front leg of the chair.

"He's doing better. He actually had dinner with us last night. Adie loves it, because Joe is all about transcribing everything we say onto these dry erase boards we got so Tré can stay with us."

Mike smiled. "That's really sweet of him."

"Yeah. Joe's reminding me more of a nicer version of myself every day. It's actually kind of starting to freak me out." Mike laughed at this, nodding.

"Only he's gonna be taller than you in a year."

Billie lazily flipped his best friend off. "My ass. With my genes, and Adie's?"

"He's gonna end up six feet tall just to spite you."

"Yeah, well. Fuck you."

They exchanged glances, then laughed for a while.

"Where is Adie?" Mike asked, standing to retrieve a third cup of coffee.

"At the office. Playing the First Lady game, listening to demos and shit. Stuff that I've been too old and lazy to do, as of late."

Mike laughed again, shaking his head. Billie smiled, then looked up, over Mike's shoulder. Mike blinked, turning, and saw Tré standing there, holding his ever-present notebook, barefooted, shirtless, and hair a mess.

Mike waved, and Tré smiled weakly, flipping open his notebook and scrawling a few sentences before handing the notebook to Mike and heading into the kitchen proper to make himself a cup of coffee.

 _ **Hey, Mike. Long time. Any chance of a smoke?**_

Mike chucked, flashing the notebook at Billie before taking the pen and responding. _**I'm fine, Tré, and you? A cigarette sounds great. Unless you meant pot, in which case, you gotta provide.**_

Tré returned with his coffee and leaned over Mike's shoulder to read, a smile spreading over his face as he snatched the pen out of Mike's hand.

 _ **I love ya', bitch. Come smoke with me, I am in severe need of the nicotine.**_ He tossed the pen down, gave Billie a look, and let himself onto the back porch, waiting for his friends to join him.

Mike and Billie looked at each other, each smiling weakly. Tré did seem to be getting into it.

Billie's voice was low, though he knew he wasn't going to be overheard anyway. "His first doctor's appointment is tomorrow."

"You taking him?"

"I said I would. I kinda want to meet her, anyway."

Mike nodded. "Let me know, how it goes."

"Of course."

There was a knocking sound, and they both turned to look at Tré, leaning in the sliding glass doorway, knocking on the frame with an eyebrow raised.

Billie nodded, heading for the door. Mike turned to shout at the kids vague threats of what would befall them if they misbehaved, and waited for three understanding responses before he joined his friends in the California sunshine, for once turning off the paranoia and just enjoying the fact that Tré was safe.


End file.
